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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364117">Ache</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squiped_Mew/pseuds/Squiped_Mew'>Squiped_Mew</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>OMORI (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Driving, Gen, Graduation, High School, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Late Night Conversations, Moving On, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Referenced Unhealthy Realtionships, Reunions, Self-Reflection, The Gang Does Not Forgive Sunny, Therapy, Timeskip, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, its a joke dont worry, love the kids but theyve got issues, the ocs arent important btw, typical sunny and basil stuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:48:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squiped_Mew/pseuds/Squiped_Mew</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunny never really understood the true feeling of the word ‘ache’.</p><p>At first, he thought it meant a pain that follows you around, shadowing you wherever you go. Mari’s death to him was an ache, a ghost that haunted every facet of his life, lurking in every dark corner whenever he turned around. The dictionary definition certainly backed that up, “a continuous or prolonged dull pain in a part of one's body.”</p><p>But perhaps not. Whenever he read books or comics, it was never used in that way. </p><p>See, the dictionary definition of ache spoke of pain. But, in the stories he read, it was always about longing. A pang of emptiness in your heart for someone who won’t turn around and look behind them to see you, standing there, waiting for them. Of yearning, hoping for someone you’d never have. </p><p> </p><p>(Or: Sunny isn't forgiven. He attempts to move on regardless.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aubrey &amp; Basil &amp; Hero &amp; Kel &amp; Sunny (OMORI), Basil &amp; Sunny (OMORI), Mari &amp; Sunny, Minor Basil/Sunny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>365</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ache</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>look, as much as i'd love to believe the gang would welcome sunny back with open arms, this sort of thing would most likely take time to be forgiven, and maybe he wouldnt be at all. So this was my take on post game, because i havent read any fics where sunny isnt forgiven yet.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny shifts in his seat, large armchair of his therapist's office swallowing his tiny frame. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard you’ve been clean for three months.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He holds out his arms, pale and free of any marks. “Probably - probably because my mom’s been hiding the knives, but I haven't - y’know - really had to lately? Does that make sense?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His therapist tilts her head. “You feel… better about yourself?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks down at the linoleum floor, peeling under his sneakers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know… I think? I’m just not sure what that feels like.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. “Alright then.” Folding her arms, she starts adjusting her posture. “Let me ask you something else then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunny never really understood the true feeling of the word ‘ache’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At first, he thought it meant a pain that follows you around, shadowing you wherever you go. Mari’s death to him was an ache, a ghost that haunted every facet of his life, lurking in every dark corner whenever he turned around. The dictionary definition certainly backed that up, “</span>
  <span>a continuous or prolonged dull pain in a part of one's body.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But perhaps not. Whenever he read books or comics, it was never used in that way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>See, the dictionary definition of ache spoke of pain. But, in the stories he read, it was always about </span>
  <em>
    <span>longing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A pang of emptiness in your heart for someone who won’t turn around and look behind them to see you, standing there, waiting for them. Of yearning, hoping for someone you’d never have. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny didn’t understand that either. He loved Mari, sure, and he still does, but his longing for her was different, not an ache, more of a phantom pain. He knew, deep in his heart, she was gone, and no amount of drowsy denial would change that. The longing wasn’t for her as a person, but perhaps for what she brought with her: A return to the status quo. To the life he dreamed of when he went to sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still visits her grave every Sunday, making the hour long drive from the big city down to the sleepy town of Faraway. He’s never there for long, but it always feels like too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or maybe it’s the town itself. Familiar places and people blending with the candy colored images in his mind he had created - sometimes, it was all too much for him. And he wouldn’t get out of the car, his mother’s eyes trailing back at him worriedly as she got out to put down a small bouquet they had gotten that week. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the way to the graveyard, they had to pass the hospital. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...Sunny hated that hospital. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he had finally let the dark truth pour from his lips, like a cup overflowing with bile and hate, the thing that struck him the most was the silence. The hollow stares of the people he had spent three years yearning for, reimagining, and deconstructing in his mind. The cold face of a boy in a hospital bed, eyes closed, unable to hear that his yoke was finally being lifted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One by one, they had all left. Kel had put a hand on his shoulder, in a vain attempt to comfort Sunny, but despite that, the message was clear: </span>
  <em>
    <span>We do not forgive you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>ached</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, in a weird way, he was almost glad they had left him. It felt like finally ripping off a bandage from a wound, no more nightmare versions of this encounter for his mind to dredge up. The scene was written, the ink had dried. No more, no less. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>So he never stops by to say hello when he goes to visit Mari on Sundays. Every now and then, he sees Kel or Aubrey on the street, sometimes with each other, sometimes with their other groups of friends. He knows Hero’s college is a state away, but he still thinks he sees Hero’s trademark spiky hair in the corner of his eye. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s had practice not looking behind him. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s seventeen, a year into his new home, when he starts to learn how to drive. It’s a bit scary, the metal around him humming with an impossible amount of firepower. Each time he climbed into the driver’s seat, he’s acutely aware that he could plunge the car off the highway and die in a big blaze of fire whenever he wants to. If he’s ever in the mood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe that’s why he waited a year before starting. So that therapy and medication could at the very least start to chip away at the thick wall of anxiety that has surrounded his mind for as long as he can remember. The city streets are crowded, even the back roads with the smaller apartment buildings. He develops a bit of a temper on the road, albeit one he hardly ever verbalizes. Too fast, too slow - people around here were just kind of shit drivers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gets used to it. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>School is… okay. At first, people think his aloofness is because he’s mysterious and interesting. In reality, he’s the opposite, and his classmates figure that out pretty fast. He has people he’s friendly with, ones he waves to in the hall and will sit with every now and then with at lunch, but nobody he’d invite over to his house, or to the park.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no park in the city. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spends a good chunk of his lunches on his phone, scrolling through various sites, with information that’s fairly obscure. He’s done this ever since he was a kid - read a lot about obscure topics, and then recite facts to other people to trick them into thinking he was smart. For example, did you know that the roman aqueducts were so precisely measured, they went down a half inch every mile almost perfectly? Or that seahorses mate for life? Or that ping pong balls were originally made out of straw? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That last one is a lie. It becomes a fun game to see how many fake ‘fun facts’ he can slip by the people he sits with at lunch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strike>
    <span>Hero probably would have caught on quickly - he was very smart. </span>
  </strike>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny has to take the drivers test twice. The first time, he gets so nervous he throws up on the test administrator’s lap, and hides in his room for two days. He comes back after a month, and does alright. Good enough for the DMV to deem him not dangerous enough to keep off the road. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother gives him a back breaking hug when he gets his license, and he can hear the tears in her voice when she tells him how proud she is. And he shows off a little bit by picking up his friends from school one day, when it’s raining and none of them want to walk home.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Months go by. He gets to know his friend group a bit better, taking more interest in them as people. He tries not to mix them and his old friends up in his mind, but he can’t help it. Maybe he’s projecting onto them a little bit. That realization freaks him out so much, he doesn’t talk to any of them for a week. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he tells his therapist about this dilemma, he asks Sunny if he had picked his friend group specifically because they reminded him of his old friends. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(He speaks to them a little more after that, gets to know them more as people and less as ideas. It's hard, but maybe that was for the best.)</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite having his license, his mother still drives him down to Faraway every Sunday. He stares out the dusty van window, earbuds in, always listening, but never processing the sound coming out of his phone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The graveyard is a constant in Sunny’s life, a small patch of land that will never change. More gravestones spring up, sure, but never enough to look unrecognizable. The church in front of it changed, getting remodeled sometime during the winter of Sunny’s senior year. It’s bigger, more modern, and more white. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No more stained glass windows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny doesn’t like the new building all that much. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you ever want to reconnect with your old friends?” His therapist asks, heels clacking on the floor with her new position.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny shifts in his chair, picking at his nails.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Not really.” He replies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s a bad habit he has, picking up every number he doesn’t recognize, hoping it’s a familiar face, reaching out to him. It’s always spam callers.)</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And yeah, life marches on. Prom comes and goes. Sunny tours a few colleges and picks a relatively close one, maybe two hours away. He marks down his major as medicine, even though he’d rather be an artist. But he doesn’t draw too much anymore, the fantasy landscapes he creates looking far too much like the world of his dreams. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t dream anymore. And he’s okay with that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spring turns to the beginning of summer. His friends all go see the fireworks over the river, cutting through their city. Red, white, and blue reflect off the surface of the lake in bright, fleeting bursts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of his friends, Kris, asks him why he’s staring at the moon instead of the fireworks. They only got to see them once a year. You’d think that’d be more important than a moon that isn’t even half full yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny doesn’t know. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Would it be bad if I said I still did?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think that’s unusual.” His therapist leans back in her chair. “You cared about them for a long time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They were… kind of my whole life.” Sunny admits, wringing his hands in shame. “Kinda pathetic, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” She smoothly replies, jotting something down on her clipboard. “But I just don’t think you have a very good sense of self, Sunny.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Sense of… self?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Defining yourself outside of other people.” She explains, leaning back. “Having interests and hobbies you picked, instead of someone else.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Defining himself outside of other people. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night, when he gets home from his appointment, he sits down in the shower, something he used to do when he was a kid, and thinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>DID he only do things because someone wanted him to? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His whole life, his idyllic younger years. The park, the beach - they were all hangouts someone else had suggested. The violin was so that Mari could play with him. The gameboy was because Kel wanted him to play a game so he could infodump about it. He gardened because Basil did - because everyone else did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And who was to blame him? Kids don’t have great senses of self, that wasn’t their fault. He couldn’t be angry at them for that, he just… clung onto those for too long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He really can’t find it in himself to be angry at them at all. And he feels like he should. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Maddi?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His friend Maddi, braids slung across the carpet as they lay on the floor together, textbooks and papers they had been using to study for their final exams strewn around them, a tray of brownies set carefully on her desk table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She sniffs, opening an eye. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How do you get angry at someone?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gives him a weird look. “Someone do something to you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe…?” He had pushed first though. “I just feel like I should be mad at them, but I’m not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re not.” She replies simply. “When you get mad, you’re mad. When you’re not mad, you’re not mad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Okay?” Seems a little redundant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What I’m saying is that you can’t force a feeling. You can force a thought, or a muscle, or a hairstyle that doesn’t work, but here?” She points to her chest, finger barely sticking out of her oversized sweater. “That shit doesn’t work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” He turns back to look at the ceiling, taking another bite of the brownies she had made. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(He never brings up his feelings with his friends, but it was nice she was being so cool about it. Still, the candiness was kinda uncharacteristic of him. Must have been the brownies.)</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Graduation is dull, as graduations tend to be. The robe and cap itch, and Sunny shifts in his seat, hot and sticky from the body heat and the nerves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His cap had gotten some reactions when he showed up. His friends all asked if he had painted the flower on top, to which he responded yes, he had, and yeah, he could actually paint, surprise surprise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When all’s said and done, and his mother and him drive back to their apartment complex, she turns to him, eyes serious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m really proud of you Sunny.” She says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shyly rubs the back of his head. “...Thanks.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean it.” She turns the key in the ignition, and the car sputters to a stop, parking space they had gotten having a few beer cans in it, metal crunching over the wheels. “So I wanted to get you something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gets out. Sunny, slightly nervous by now, follows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, they don’t have to walk far, as three parking spaces down, she pulls out an unfamiliar keychain. Smiling, she hands it to Sunny, metal cold against his clammy palms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Huh?” She gestures for him to click it, and he does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The car right in front of them beeps twice, and Sunny jumps. His mother laughs at his shock, before patting his shoulder. “I got this for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s…” The punch buggy is a car he recognizes well, from being socked in the shoulder by Aubrey and Kel so many times after missing one on the road. It’s a bit worn down, and there’s a stricker that’s been rudely scraped away, leaving chipped back paint behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it’s his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mom I -” Holy shit, is he about to cry over a car? “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...There’s one more thing.” Her expression turns from playful to a bit more somber. “Sunny I… I got you this car so you could… go to Faraway on your own.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart stops. “What?” He breathes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Going every Sunday… it was good for me for a while. And I think it was good for you too.” His mother inhales deeply. “But I think I’m done with it now. I want to start moving on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>moving on, and I know how much our Sundays mean to you -” She starts, cutting off Sunny’s erratic breath of indignation. “But I think it’s time that I let her go.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunny doesn’t move, cheeks burning hot. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother places a hand on his shoulder. “I know you go at a different pace.” She says, smiling sadly. “And if you think going to visit every Sunday is good for you, then go. But I don’t think it’s going to do me any good anymore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fingers his keys, metal retaining heat with every turn of his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He understands. Everyone grieves differently, and what is Sunny if not someone who clings onto things a little too long?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he can’t be mad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Will you still come every now and then?” Sunny inhales shakily, refusing to start crying.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In response, he’s enveloped in a warm hug, and while it’s not the first time Sunny’s seen his mother cry, it’s the first time it’s really occurred to him that she felt Mari’s death just as much as he did. That it really struck him that she was her own person, had thoughts just as complicated as his, and loved him, so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He hugs back.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits outside, in the garage for a while, graduation gown getting covered in dust. He doesn’t really care. He can’t find it in himself to care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Moving on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, why is that so hard?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks at his new car, then down to the keychain in his hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The small golden poppy charm looks back at him. Plastic. Inoffensive. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The steering wheel feels forgien under his hands, and he presses shuffle on his playlist, trying to block out the pounding in his head. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“One more day, the sun reaches my bed,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“One more day, to spend alone again…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns the key in the ignition, and slams his foot on the gas. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive is fairly long, but it feels like he blinks and suddenly he’s there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The town of Faraway looks different at night, almost like a completely different town. Lights blur in the reflection of his rearview mirror, and the friendly looking shops and houses seem almost asleep in the dim light. Like labor day, the moon is only a small crescent, only now no fireworks are obscuring it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He passes the hospital, and for once, takes a long look at it. The sterile white bricks, glass windows. It’s tall. A long way down from the top. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel the same anxiety when he normally catches it out of the corner of his eyes. The night makes the memories more docile, instead of riling him up like it always did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The music creates an endless feedback loop, ringing in his ears, like static or a droning something. He turns it off, sets the car in reverse, and drives away. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Hobbez. The supermarket. All familiar places. He wants to go in for once, roam around and be a kid again. They’re closed though, so no dice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neighborhoods. Houses. Aubrey’s run down shack of a house. Kel and Hero’s pristine front. Basil’s porch, covered in potted plants. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He passes where his old house used to be. It’s been torn down, in the process of building something new. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, he’s there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cemetery is gloomy in the dim light, streetlamp reflecting off of stone. He parks, climbing out. Black robes billow around his feet as he walks up to the gate that’s been left slightly ajar. It creaks loudly as he enters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stone tablets marking the land. An old well in the middle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three rows down, second to last. The familiar gravestone is still there, a bit weathered from time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘HERE LIES MARI - A TREASURE TO US ALL’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a white egret orchid placed carefully beside it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who -?</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Sunny?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunny freezes, hair standing up on the back of his neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No - no way. Too much of a coincidence - </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>But there Basil is, green eyes wide in the dim light. He’s got a backpack slung over his shoulder, small and seeming semi impractical, but whatever. He’s wearing overalls too, a yellow and black striped shirt underneath it. Like a bee.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a golden poppy clip on the left side of his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t grown an inch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Basil?” Sunny breathes, before remembering that he’s probably trespassing, and the only thing he can manage to choke out is a weak: “Uh - don’t tell the pastor?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...He doesn’t… own this graveyard Sunny.” Basil awkwardly responds. “Mr. Batter does.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” A new cryptkeeper. Huh. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>An awkward silence. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Why are you… in a graduation outfit?” Basil stammers, eyes fixed on the grass beneath his feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh-” Oh yeah. He hadn’t bothered to change. “I, er, uh - I graduated today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Oh!” Basil’s eyes flit up to Sunny’s face for a brief second. “Congratulations.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” Sunny pauses, heart swelling like a dam full to bursting from nerves or happiness, or whatever it was, and he just lets the words come flowing out. “I uh - I got a car. Today actually. And, uh - well, I actually come here a lot? On sundays, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me around or not, but my mom has kinda decided she was done with coming all the time so she said if I wanted to go on my own I should, so when I got in my car, I dunno I just -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-Autopiloted.” Basil finished. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Yeah.” Sunny looks up, finally. “Autopiloted.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brief moment of silence again, but a bit more comfortable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...What are you doing in here?” Sunny finally works up the nerves to say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh - I started doing part time here, with Mr. Batter.” Basil explains.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s kinda morbid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basil ignores him. “Point is, someone’s been messing around here at night the past few weeks, so I - I was gonna stake out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Well it wasn’t me.” Sunny awkwardly jokes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I figured. I think it’s probably Michael.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The question bubbles up and pops out of his lips before he can really process it. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“How… is everyone?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basil looks up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I -” Sunny blanches, backtracking. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just kinda curious - sorry if it was a dumb question.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No… you’re good.” Basil falls into silence, and Sunny waits in anticipation. “They’re good. We’re doing good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Basil nods. “I sit with them at lunch now. So do Aubrey’s friends, so it’s pretty lively.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” It’s good to hear that the three of them are getting along, despite everything. “They’re not…?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no - we… we sorted that out a long time ago.” Basil replies. “So we’re good now. Not super tight but it’s… it’s better then nothing I guess.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basil still looks tired. But less tired then he did the first time Sunny had seen him when Kel dragged him out of the house. Less sallow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basil really hadn’t grown a bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or was Sunny just taller?</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you after I moved.” Sunny confesses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s… okay.” Basil responds, looking away. “I think we needed some time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crickets chirp, louder than he had heard in a while. Certainly louder then they ever were in the city. It keeps the silence from being too deafening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We... don’t have to be friends again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basil looks up at him, for the first time in their entire conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously.” Sunny takes off his cap, head hanging in remorse. “I didn’t come back to see you, not that I mind. I just…” He looks down at Mari’s gravestone. “I think my mom was right, about letting go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Letting… go?” Basil repeats. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart aches at Basil’s soft words. But he knows it won’t last forever, so he pushes on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to college soon. We all are. And I… I think I’m ready to put this behind me.” Not forget, like he had tried to do for so many years. Not stew in his sadness, like Basil had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re… giving up?” On Mari, on them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks of the therapist's office, linoleum under his feet. He thinks of his friends now, his new ones, how when he’s with them, it’s the lightest he’s felt in a while. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had loved. He had lost. And he still ached, but he knew the ache wouldn’t leave him until he let the last of it drift off to sea.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunny looks Basil square in the face, taking a deep breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not giving up.” He responds. “Letting go.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Basil shudders. Once, twice, and then looks away, eyes wet. Sunny’s are too, but neither one says anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…” And Basil has been doing some of that too, letting go. But it’s hard, when he’s surrounded by it every day, like roots clinging onto him. “...Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stand there, silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I still care about you guys.” Sunny says. “I never won’t. But…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I never had a life outside of you all. But I never knew who I was without someone’s guiding hand. But you - you - consumed my every waking and sleeping thought</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I tore you apart in my dreams, then who’s to say my feelings won’t do that to you in real life?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Basil finishes, sniffling. “I get it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny’s hands are shaking, and Basil takes them, cold hands against his warm, clammy ones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe someday,” Basil sniffles. “We can be friends again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.” Sunny’s never been a physical contact guy, but this… is nice. “I don’t think today, but someday.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe when we’re adults. When we’re all more mature and can sort this out better. When I’m an artist and you’re a biologist, Kel, Aubrey, and Hero and us will meet up at cafes on Wednesdays to catch up. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a future he can see in his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sunny turns back to Mari’s gravestone, slowly pulling away. Basil almost reaches back, almost, but catches himself. There’s a shred of the same, scared Basil Sunny had confronted in the bathroom, but it’s smaller. Basil’s stronger now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He places his graduation cap down on top of the stone marker, tilting slightly on its side. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Basil looks at the painting he did on the top. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Did you do that?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The bright, yellow sunflower he had spent hours agonizing, thirty dollars he had spent on fabric paint, over stares back. It’s the best piece he’s ever done.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.” Sunny replies. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>....This is nice.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tumblr: https://squipedmew.tumblr.com/</p><p>Discord: https://discord.gg/7fGKDJ2</p><p>youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1PtaW8dTzCzlDfb76VRU9Q</p></blockquote></div></div>
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